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Jan 30 Thimbles

We must learn when to cradle what we carryAnd when to let it slip through our fingers.When to give our kindnesses, like handfuls of flowers on supple stems,And how much of them we have to keep,For our protection

We are still needed.We are still necessary.Even when the ground shifts and shakesOr the path through the maze keeps leading us further away from wherever we were going,Even when the glass breaks in our handsOr the sky we have held up for so long is taken from us.(I know it was heavy but it was yours, my mortal Atlas)

There is so much work left to do.Not just here.Not just there.But everywhere.

There are so many tasks still at hand.So many ways to gild the sun until it gleams,Or dust the moon for the fingerprints of dreamers,And to comfort the stars, who are still afraid of the darkAfter all these years.

We must save each other and ourselves and in that way, we get to save the world.

This world which has no heart of its own,And which needs the soft fluttering of our imperfect hearts to love it.So it can be more than one small painted rock,In a vast universe.It can be home.

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If you happen to be involved in a love affair with a writer and you don't find ink in strange places; the bed sheets and pillow cases, their clothes, the once pristine blotter, the tray they rest their papers on, their faces and even their thighs, then I don't think they're doing it properly and you should scorn their sonnets.